


Beneath the Stone

by DreamsUnderTheMidnightSun



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Red Hawke, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsUnderTheMidnightSun/pseuds/DreamsUnderTheMidnightSun
Summary: I once told a Seeker of Truth that when you love a character you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer. I could only wonder to myself if that was the reason the Maker cursed us to experience despair. We weave tangled webs of His torment, leaving trenches in greater history. One might ask, to what end? For the story, of course. From what I can see, all stories are the same. Good stories, that is. Conflict. The war amongst man and inside man. Good, evil. Justice, injustice. This one is no different.- V. Tethras





	1. Reunite

** ACT 1 **

"And there he was, dangling in the air off the tip of the Arishok's sword! Men shook their heads in disbelief, women hid behind their hands, and Isabela bellowed a scream as if in bodily pain. The Viscount's Keep was filled with gasps of sorrow and ruin as Hawke's body writhed and gushed blood upon the floor. The Arishok's voice, sharp and instantly recognizable amidst the auditory chaos, drawled his proclamation,

_"This cesspool has stolen much from you, Hawke, and now the Qun claims all that remains."_

A scream erupted from Hawke. A scream that shook the Keep and cut through the cries of his onlookers. A scream that could run a shiver up the spine of a hunter, for only they would know it so intimately. It was the utterance of a dying wild animal in its last fighting moments. And then POOF! Hawke and the Arishok became clouded in a thick smoke. As the black tendrils dissipated, it revealed the Arishok, solitary and confused. He moved his great horned head, his dark eyes searching the crowd as he wondered if Hawke had attempted an escape. But Garrett Hawke was never a coward. He appeared behind the Arishok and leaped, landing heavily against his foe's back. His dual blades sank deeply into the flesh of the Arishok's neck.

The massive warrior's mouth opened in the thrall of death but no words came out as he fell. The sound of his body thudding to the floor echoed in the Keep and still no one uttered a word, frozen in anticipation of the Qunari's next intentions. Hawke stood heaving over his kill and to the horror of everyone, his fingers reached into his mangled mid-rift before smearing his own blood across his face like the savage so many proclaimed him to be. He barred his teeth at the rest of the Qunari, a deadly challenge waiting for any one of them to avenge their fallen leader. But none came. Collectively and silently, they left the Keep and fled Kirkwall. Defeated. A thunderous applause erupted like the galloping horses of a great army. Hawke fell to his knees and as he did so, Isabela ran over to his side to catch him. His strength was quickly fleeing him and when he collapsed she pulled his head into her lap. Angry tears gilded her bronzed cheeks. He reached a shaking hand up and uttered,

 _"I've loved you since the day I saw you in that bar fight. I'm sorry I never said it."_ "

"How romantic." Lead scout Lace Harding interjected breathily.

The crowd was pulled in. The lilt of Varric's recitation drew in patrons who weren't even involved with the inner circle's card game that had long been forgotten. People listened rapturously as he transported them to the most infamous dual to occur in Kirkwall. The Inquisitor sat beside him, gazing sharply at times when she perhaps perceived him of being too theatrical in his recitation. Which, she was absolutely wrong in perceiving.

"That's not at all what I said."

The entire tavern looked up to see none other than Garrett Hawke listening from the second floor railing. Varric's shoulders relaxed at the sight of Hawke's bemused smirk. Beside him, Adaar snorted into her tankard as the trance of Varric's storytelling was effectively stomped out by Hawke's appearance. A few of the tavern's patrons whispered fervently to each other at the sight of the Champion of Kirkwall who, until this night, had been hiding amongst the towers in the ramparts.

"Wot? You serious? I knew you was a liar, Mr. Dwarfy. You believe this guy?" Sera scoffed as she elbowed Blackwall.

"I didn't say that it was all untrue." Hawke answered for Varric as he began to descend down the wooden steps. "Many of it is hazy for me after hanging on the edge of the sword, but yes I am told that is what occurred. I barely recollect doing the blood stunt and I don't remember Isabela and I talking. If we did, I most certainly didn't say that nonsense." He huffed with crossed arms as he made his way to the table. The people at the tavern parted to give him a path and Hawke neither acknowledged this act nor seemed to be humbled by it.

"You're right." Varric said with a shrug as his gloved finger traced the rim of his pint. "The actual conversation happened thusly: With angry tears on her face, Isabela looked for answers. _"Why? Why would you do this?"_ She demanded. Hawke, the ever stubborn scamp, answered with an incredibly roguish _"You know why."_ And then you proceeded to tell her she should have kept running and never turned back. To which she responded, _"You're a stupid, stupid bastard."_ "

Hawke's lips twisted in an effort to fight a smile. It was good to see his old friend in the rare form of light spirits. Hawke had always been aloof and quick to temper but at least, back in the day, he had a sense of humor. His rare good spirits became even rarer after the Mage Rebellion when he chose to kill Fenris and Anders. Since his arrival last week, he had been reluctant to socialize, most especially with his sister Bethany at his side.

The humor in Hawke's face dropped and his arms rested rigidly at his sides as the massive form of the Iron Bull stood from his seat at the card table. Varric knew that stance well and watched the exchange warily. Adaar seemed to sense the air and sat taller in her seat as she watched. Suffice to say, since the invasion of Kirkwall, Hawke had been distrustful of qunari regardless if they followed the Qun or not. The two fighters sized one another up.

"So, you are the man who slayed the Arishok?" came the taller man's gravelly voice.

"With great relish and artistry, I assure you." Hawke responded with haughty quirk of the brow.

Unexpectedly, the Iron Bull extended a hand that Hawke gazed at mutely before smirking. He clenched his hand into Bull's. "The guy was a bastard anyways. Come sit with me and the Chargers. We could swap some battle stories."

"I must decline." The disinterest was plain on Hawke's face. "Tonight I shall only be having a word with my friend. Varric." His friend beckoned him with a nod of his head towards the stairs.

"You best not sneak off before paying that silver you owe me, serrah." Adaar hissed in jest at him as he stood from table. She inclined her head to the Iron Bull as he stooped over to whisper something in her ear. She scoffed and shoved the other qunari away.

Varric lifted his hands in defense, "Wouldn't dream of it, boss."

"Yeah, yeah." She responded with a wave her hand.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward as members of the inner circle began a new round of Wicked Grace. He was glad he could bring that about. He missed the late drunken nights at the Hanged Man playing cards. But then things changed, rather rapidly. But isn't that just the summary of Kirkwall? Shitty things turn even shittier, and the people you thought you could trust are actually the ones you need to watch out for.

Varric reached the landing on the second floor of the Herald's Rest. Thanks to his story telling, most of the usual second floor patrons had been drawn to the lower level. Hawke stood next to a vacant table. He took a seat while Hawke chose to lean against a wooden beam next to a chair.

"How's Sunshine? Keeping busy?"

"She's in our room right now." His friend responded with a shrug. "I tell her to read, she reads. I tell her to eat, she eats. I tell her to stay and do nothing, she stays and does nothing. It's like I have a mabari again instead of a sister." Hawke muttered bitterly.

Varric never knew Carver, but Varric could say that out of all the Hawke's, Bethany dominated the looks department. She had been a bright and funny girl, in the biting way that Hawke's are. She had a respectable ethical code, far superior to both her elder brother and Varric himself. Her time in the Circle at Kirkwall did not diminish her beauty but it devastated all else. The Bethany that he and Hawke loved was gone. Forever.

"I never asked... Why didn't you leave her behind?"

An elf holding a tray of drinks stopped by their table to drop off two tankards of cold ale. Varric gave the girl some coppers before taking a sip of the brew. Definitely better than the Hanged Man's, though when you're rolling with Andraste's Herald you can expect better things coming your way than ale with an after taste of cat piss.

"I wouldn't trust anyone else to look after her nor would I expect them to want to."

"I'm sure Merrill or Isabela would have taken care of her just fine." Varric suggested.

"Merrill is gone." Hawke's lips pursed as he stared down at his untouched drink. Varric tipped onto the back legs of his chair and nodded.

"I know. Unlike you, she wrote to me. She's taking care of the elves that fled Kirkwall."

Hawke huffed. "Of course, you all ready know everything." He muttered. "And has Isabela sent word?"

"You mean Admiral Isabela? Yeah, she told me she has an entire armada now." Varric saw something flash in Hawke's eyes. "You… didn't know?" he questioned with surprise.

At the time when the Seeker abducted Varric for questioning, Bethany, Isabela, and Merrill were still in hiding with Hawke on Sundermount. Somehow both Isabela and Merrill departed from the Hawke siblings, which seemed very unlike them. What did seem likely was that Hawke probably did what Hawke does best; spout some offensive remarks to drive them away. Said man scratched his beard before changing the subject.

"I'm surprised you're still here, Varric. This whole operation feels like just another bomb that's waiting to blow."

Varric exhaled loudly and fiddled with his earring. He was expecting this from his friend. After all, being serious and joining an entourage seeking to defend the world from destruction wasn't exactly Varric's spiel. Bribery was. Smuggling was. Burglary was. Hiding in a shithole was. Sharking cards was. But this whole thing was a new game. One that was too overwhelming to run and hide from. On top of it all, the red lyrium they had unwittingly brought back with them to Kirkwall was popping up all over the place like a genital outbreak. It was driving people mad all over the continent and being used by the enemy as a means to power their templars. His own mistake was devastating the cause he just swore himself to. He couldn't leave this to rectify itself. He needed to help.

"I have to see this through to the end, Hawke. Besides the threat of the world ending, there's just been… weird shit. Really weird shit. Worse than Kirkwall. I can't turn away from it."

"People killing people and doom looming over head." Hawke muttered. "Sounds the same to me." He turned his attention to the railing as thunderous laughter erupted from below.

"The giant hole in the sky doesn't keep you up at night?"

He quirked his scarred brow at Varric. "Yes, and many other things. Corphyeus needs to be stopped. There is no doubt and I take personal responsibility for the state of things. It's what else that is senseless. This Inquisition looking to bring peace, balance, and world order while being led by the Herald of Andraste." Hawke mocked.

Varric shook his head at his friend. He knew Hawke was wary of anything religious with their history of run-ins with Chantry members. True enough, even Varric was wary at first, especially when it was Cullen and the Seeker taking him. "There are worse things to aspire to and worse people to be led by."

They had lucked out. The woman who fell out of the Fade also had leading experience with her previous mercenary group. So far, because of her, they had a fighting chance in the war. She was of the atypical sort that was for sure. Some of the things that would come out of her mouth surprised him. Not just because she could be as crass as a drunken vagrant, but she also knew when and where to be articulate and polished. She could shout about cock and balls with the boys and then turn around and gain the entire approval of the Imperial Court, as a qunari no less. Quite frankly, it was a bit of a twisted joke that she would come to lead such a religiously devout movement.

Varric knew good heroes. He wrote about them. He was a friend of one. Adaar had all the proper makings. She was ruthless and black on the battlefield but compassionate in her leadership. Those who were persecuted because of their appearance or country of origin, she opened her arms to. Those who had committed wrongdoing and sought a second chance, she gave them the opportunity. Those who were cast aside, she seemed fond to collect. As collector of miscreants himself, Varric felt a deep camaraderie with her.

So far, she seemed aware that there were now two parts of her being. When she was Adaar, she was the swarthy, foul-mouthed mercenary who loved a good fight and getting drunk. As the Inquisitor, she was the silver-tongued leader of a political and religious movement whose duty was to command, protect, and persuade nobles and common folk alike. She was able to flit between the two personas in admirable deftness.

"How the hell do you do that?" he questioned her the night they celebrated the success of Halamshiral at Skyhold.

She gave a light laugh and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure how to explain it…"

"Humor me."

"Think of it this way, each interaction can be stripped to an equation. Within the first minute of meeting a person, from what they convey to me, I can determine what to do and what to say. I can use that to mold myself within each interaction. I can control my body language, vocabulary, tone of voice, ya know whatever, in order to get what I want. Sometimes, what I want is for them to like me so they can assist us or allow us to help them. Sometimes, what I want is for them to dislike me or sometimes fear me. Who I am all depends on what is needed in that moment. Does… that make sense?" She tilted her head towards him and the gold in her earrings and cuffed horns glimmered in the firelight.

There were segments of her leading style that reminded him much of Hawke. Both were incredibly shrewd, but Hawke was rash in his responses, which worked hand in hand with his impetuous personality. Adaar was shrewd and calculating and her responses were measured, even when they appeared not to be. While she accepted her role and rose to shape-shift herself to fit it, Hawke remained grounded like a moss covered rock. The man wore his badge of Champion as if it were a leech on his backside to further a foul mood and scowled at the idea of being a representative of his city. There was something comforting about it at least. Even with the world ending, Hawke would still be Hawke. A grouchy bastard.

"I mean, prior to this, there was a reason my group used me as a envoy. If any of the others went to meet with some of the dignitaries employing us, we would have been dropped like a shitting nug. They always joked I could charm the pants off those who farted too high for their own asshole, get me?" she scoffed as she swam in memories.

"Farts too high for their own asshole. You don't mind if I steal that, do you?"

She chuckled and waved her hand in consent as she drank her brew.

"So, from the sound of it, you're a highly perceptive individual who uses her powers of analysis to manipulate people and groups into doing what you want, or at least feeling what you want. Whether that be trust, irritation, disgust, or fear."

She squinted her eyes as she listened and then smiled widely and nodded, as she was satisfied with his summary.

"Well, thank the fucking Maker that you have a well constructed moral compass because if you were on the other side doing that shit, we'd be screwed. I'd say you're as charismatic as Desire Demon."

"It's because I'm guided by the light of Andraste, serrah." Her voice climbed into a dramatic, falsetto tone. "She guides me in every way, with every thought and action. When I feel my eyes drawn to the naughty bits of others, it is she who guides my eyes. It is she who anoints me in my knickers-"

"Alright, alright you crazy qunari. Don't speak too loud like that or the Left and Right Hands of the Divine may come purify us sinners."

She snorted and went to move away from the bar, but as he thought of her mockery something uncomfortable settled into his stomach. "Shit… wait. Do you actually…" He grimaced. He felt stupid to ask the question. "Do you actually believe that all that's happened to you is pure coincidence?"

He never really asked her if she felt she was truly some "chosen" individual, as a majority of Thedas had been claiming her to be. From her constant mocking of the religious title as the Herald, anyone could guess what she felt. But, he never got anything direct from her.

Adaar's brows moved together as she slid back into her seat. Her dark red eyes moved away from him in quiet contemplation. "I suppose you don't?" she asked softly.

He rubbed the back of his neck before taking a long swig from his ale.

"I mean, let's roll through the list. You fell out of the Fade and was the sole survivor of an explosion that leveled a mountaintop. You get magic in your hand that just so happens to be the key to stopping the world from ending. You faced down one of the ancient magisters that started the Blight. A mountain fell on top you at Haven and then we found your half frozen body still walking out in the Maker damned wilderness. You went back in time. You single-handedly saved the Orlesian Empire…" He chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all. He was exemplary at telling tall tales, but even Varric couldn't make up all the shit she had done. "You make this shit look easy, Adaar. You must realize that, don't you? Accomplishing one of those things would be impossible, but you did all of them. And there isn't a speck of a question in your mind that asks, _'Is there someone up there looking out for my ass?'_ Not just a little?"

Her hand came to her chin as she listened, her forefinger softly tapping her top lip in thought. Her eyes then traced along the bar, inspecting its occupants to assure no one was listening.

"I think…" She gripped her drink tightly as she gazed at the dark liquid. "…deep down if I acknowledge that none of this is within my power, that nothing is a direct result from my own choices and actions, and there is someone else writing my story and all I'm doing is walking towards their ending… I would-" She bit her lip and shook her head. Her countenance was dark as she spoke. "I suppose I just don't like the thought." She offered him a strained grin. "It's much easier to think that about 80% of the time I have no idea what I'm doing, and that sometimes good things happen from it and sometimes bad things happen." She winked at him as she attempted to transition into a lighter mood.

"Jeez… 80%? That won't help me sleep at night."

"Yeah, but that 20% is pretty solid, right? That 20% got us here and is now telling you to enjoy your cups, motherfucker. _Next round is on me!_ " She announced to the tavern. She raised her mug in response to the collection of cheers as she moved off her stool to join the rabble.

"You surprise me, Varric." Hawke's gravelly voice broke his reverie. "After everything we've gone through, I'd thought you'd be the one to understand as well as I… This world will never be fixed." It was hard to miss the scathing edge in Hawke's tone. Varric suspected that the pledge he gave to the Inquisition was either spurring some jealousy or resentment of abandonment from Hawke. The man before him had changed from the smart mouthed young Ferelden he met in Kirkwall.

Varric made sure his gaze held no pity, for his friend would only sour more at the belittling emotion. Hawke had been through a lot and it had made him jagged, closed off, and cynical. But, at one time, he once knew to stand up for those being pushed around. Though he sought to protect his family above all else, he had known there were good causes to fight for.

"The Hawke I knew believed in something different."

The younger man's nostrils flared as he crossed his arms, unable to argue.

"Champion!"

A young man in robes, an obvious mage refugee, interrupted their discussion. A few tables away three other acolytes watched anxiously. "I apologize for the intrusion. Please, you must allow me to buy you a drink! My friends and I would like to honor you and the mage Anders for beginning the rebellion in Kirkwall."

"Kid, this isn't time to-"

Hawke had been evaluating the mage with a stoic face before he gently took the young man's tankard from his hand. Varric grimaced as he watched Hawke spit in the mage's drink, give it a good swirl, and place it back in his confused hands.

"Now that is a fitting drink to toast to Anders with."

"I-I don't understand. I thought you and Anders were friends. You sided with the mages during the Battle of Kirkwall. You-"

"Walk away, imbecile." Hawke spoke in a tone of finality.

Like most who approached the legendary Champion of Kirkwall hoping to bask in his illustriousness, the young mage skulked back to his table of friends looking devastatingly disappointed.

"Was that necessary, Killer?"

Hawke leaned forward and gripped the back of the wooden chair in front of him. "These _people_ …" His voice dripped with odium. "They raise their cups to weak men. Men who became that which they hated and betrayed their own values. This is what I mean, Varric. Mages. Templars. They both do despicable things. They both don't care who gets in their way and it is how it has always been and always will be. Isabela was right. Justice is only an idea. The only justice to exist was the one that drove Anders insane inside of his head."

The two old friends stared into one another's eyes.

"Why did you really come down here tonight?" Varric questioned as he drummed his fingers against the table.

Hawke stood tall and thumbed his nosed. Varric's eyes squinted suspiciously as he recognized his tell. Thick arms crossed against Hawke's chest once more, "I missed your company." Definitely a lie.

"Well, that's sweet and utter bullshit." He replied with a sigh.

Hawke looked away but Varric caught the twisting of his lips as he attempted not to grin.

"We need to get out and kill some people soon. This fortress is dull." Was Hawke's contemptuous goodbye as he walked away from the table. Varric noticed Hawke's attention return to the downstairs as he passed it. He had to have been looking for someone. One guess who. When that particular lump of shit hit the fan, it was going to be a large mess.

"Soon, Killer. Have a good night." Varric shouted as the man's legs disappeared up the stairs to the third floor. He sighed as he grabbed his pint and paused momentarily before he grabbing Hawke's abandoned one. He dropped it off with the mage Hawke had spurned and offered an apology before he went to rejoin the loud gathering downstairs. The card game appeared to have been abandoned for a test of arm strength. As Varric reached the bottom of the wooden steps, Rocky from the Charger's flew overhead and landed on a nearby table, demolishing it. The one-eyed former Ben-Hassrath howled in victory and gathered his winnings as Cabot the bartender cursed them to the abyss. The next contender to take Rocky's seat was Adaar. She postured herself confidently across the table from the towering figure of barely restrained masculinity that was the Iron Bull. More people came to gather round as Sera rubbed the female qunari's shoulders like she was a boxer about to enter the ring. Dorian took on the flurry of bets as Blackwall settled between the qunari to referee the match.

"Boss, if we lose our job over this I'll take the other eye." Krem groaned.

Certain inner circle members were not in attendance to tonight's debaucheries, but it was to be expected. Though the tavern did not get as rowdy as it was tonight, there were some that steered clear of the Herald's Rest. It was, after all, a place to drink for the soldiers, mages, scouts, and spies of the Inquisition. Naturally, the passing dignitaries and representatives chose to eat and drink in the comforting grandeur of the great hall. The austere presence of Solas and Vivienne was oft to be found there, but a certain stiff character was surprisingly in the tavern this night.

Off to the side was the Seeker at a table with her shoulder pressed to the wall, attempting to melt into it. She faced away from the drinking crowd, disregarding the revel. Her gaze was fixated on the book in front of her as a small candle stub burned just to the side. He smirked as he saw her and decided that poking the dragon would be better than the more obvious entertainment. He crept up behind her and could make out the literature as his own. That just made it even better. As the woman reached for her ale he spoke over her shoulder,

"Eh, I heard that author is a lying snake."

She shot up in alarm, looking at him wildly in fury before realizing she tipped her ale. She snagged up the book and held it to her breast before the small amount of liquid could damage it. He laughed heartily at her red, scowling face. A strangled noise came from behind her teeth as she retook her seat.

"Must you always torment me, dwarf?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose as long as you make it fun for me. So how are you liking it so far?"

She huffed through her nose in an attempt of disinterest, but it was disingenuous. Her fingers curled angrily around the spine of the book at the sight of his smirk growing into a grin. She groaned.

"Fine. It is… fantastic." She seemed aggrieved to bestow him with a compliment. She carefully placed the book on the edge of the table.

"Ah, well it's good to make a fan happy. Enjoy yourself, Seeker. If you can." He muttered the last part under his breath as he turned around. Dorian had called his name and was motioning for him to throw in his bet.

"Wait, Varric."

Her appeal surprised him. He placed a hand on his hip as he turned to look at her, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Sit." She ordered. He eyed her suspiciously before she sighed and tried in a more pleasant tone, "Please."

From behind them, the crowd began roaring as the match commenced. He momentarily considered declining her but this was too unconventional to pass up. Languidly, he pulled out the chair across from her, placing his ale on the table as he settled into a casual posture. In contrast, the Seeker sat up straight and laced her fingers together as her forearms came to rest on the table, careful to avoid the spill.

"Doing this for me…" She began in a tense voice. "It was a kind thing to do and… undeserved considering what I said about you."

"Well, I'm sure you aren't the only reader I have who thinks I'm full of shit, yet I still keep writing."

"But you did not do this for your readers. You did this for me."

There was a silence after her last word. Varric took a moment to pick a red hair off his tunic. "Yes." He finally responded.

"Why?" She demanded in an even tone.

He recognized the look in her eye. It was the look that gleamed like a spell in the dark while he was being interrogated in Kirkwall. Just as he did then, he allowed indifference to ooze from his demeanor. He shrugged his shoulders before draping an arm along the back of his seat.

"Recompense, I suppose. Even though I don't regret being loyal to Hawke, I knew I had shaken the small amount of trust we built up."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction.

"You spent a collection of hours over parchment for a piece of work that had already been previously abandoned. You sacrificed time and imagination for a composition that would not get published, that would not make you money, and all because you wanted to set things right between us? How _magnanimous_ of you." Her voice was drenched in misgiving.

He held her gaze as he drank his ale and smacked his lips.

"That's me. I'm just a real charitable guy." He brightly quipped with a whimsical wave of his hand.

"Charitable towards the likes of me? The woman who previously was your jailer?"

Her eyes alone could strip skin from bones, but Varric was resilient. She was searching for him to show his hand but he would not relent. Yes, he spent a lot of time finishing that story. He was a busy dwarf and there were often deeds that required his attention from his spy network, the Merchants Guild, and his philanthropy work with rebuilding Kirkwall. But amongst all of that he put time aside to work on _Sword & Shields_, for her… and she knew it.

If he was honest it did not begin out of feelings of contrition. It began because Adaar asked him to. Then it tumbled into a black gaiety at the thought of presenting her with something that caught her so off-guard the embarrassment couldn't be washed from her face. In the end, when he finally gave her the gift, he was glad to do it. It was surprisingly nice to see her find delight in one of his creations, even if it was the trashiest of the bunch.

He did not know why she searched for an understanding. Perhaps she was suspicious the good deed was done in an attempt to hold one over on her. Regardless, tonight's interactions were beginning to drain on his nerves.

"Maybe…" he began as he leaned in, "I did it because I wanted to see the look on your face."

She crossed her arms and a telltale crinkle appeared on her nose, "What look?"

"The look that says, _'Maybe I've been wrong. Maybe I shouldn't be cruel before giving people a chance.'_ "

They stared at one another with countenances as soft as steel wool.

"Is that what you think I am? Cruel?" Her mouth barely moved as she spoke.

The tavern suddenly flashed a brilliant purple. With the sound of a loud CRACK, Bull flew out from his seat at the table where Adaar sat, her arm still crackling with electricity. Varric scoffed just as the Seeker twisted back around. Their table trembled with all the jumps, stomps, and fist-pounding that erupted in the tavern from the Inquisitor's victory. But the table Varric and the Seeker sat at was devoid of frivolity, the air between them easily descending into thorniness. He sighed and relaxed more into his seat.

"Look, it's not who you are all the time." He admitted as he motioned with his gloved hand. "I think you tend to be cruel because it has been demanded so often from you in the past."

Unfortunately, his words didn't gain the comforting affect he had been hoping for.

"Such a razor-sharp perception you have." She muttered scathingly.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Almost as good as yours, I would think. But don't mind me if I take it elsewhere. Have a goodnight, Seeker. Just so you know, _sometimes_ people do nice things for others without any motive in mind."

He drained the dregs of his cup and left the table. Cabot was currently kicking patrons out of the tavern. The first to dart out were the Chargers, some mages and scouts, followed by Harding and Blackwall. In the opposite direction, Sera and Dorian scuttled up the stairs faster than cats. The floor was littered with spilled ale, two broken glass pints, not to mention the broken table and myriad of tossed over chairs.

"You're animals! The fucking lot of you!"

As the Iron Bull and Adaar ran through the exit to escape the wrath of the cancerous dwarf, Varric's eyes chanced a look back at the Seeker, who still sat facing away from them. Her book remained closed at the edge of the table as she gazed at his abandoned cup before her.

The walk back to his room above the Skyhold garden was dampened and it wasn't just from the cold temperature. The interactions he had this night weighed on him as he fell into his chair. The enchanted candles in his room sprung to life and cast their light across the oak surface of his work desk where there were letters from his network of people, Guild meeting minutes, messages from Provisional Viscount Bran, Aveline, Merrill, Isabela, and a single unopened envelope with the letter B adorning its front. As his fingers tapped against the envelope, a knot began to tighten in his abdomen. He flicked the letter away and instead pulled out a clean sheet of parchment with his pen and inkwell. The scathing words that belonged to Hawke and the accusing stare that burned from the Seeker's eyes ebbed away as his characters came to resurgence. Something about tonight plagued and pecked at his insides. A strong sense of aversion was beginning to bloom so Varric Tethras did what he did best. He drowned it out with the stories bubbling in his mind. After all, it was better than being in a world on the brink of death and destruction.


	2. The Place of Rain and Fire

To say the least, Garrett Hawke was not enthroned Champion of Kirkwall through a popularity vote. He was blunt, sour, impatient, and incredibly open with his dislike. He ascended from destitute refugee to distinguished noble through his remarkable skill in persuasion, intimidation, carving flesh, and getting shit done. He cast a heavy and ensnaring shadow across his family, one in which his younger brother Carver struggled within and ultimately died under. 

But, Bethany Hawke was different. She always had something the Champion lacked and radiated so bright that the shadow could not cover her. When first arriving to Kirkwall her elder brother made sure most of their money made went to funding the Deep Roads expedition. Bethany secretly kept a little on the side. She would sell whatever they picked up on their journeys and bring the money to the Ferelden refugees, the children in Lowtown, and Ander’s clinic. She would go to the Alienage and assist Merrill and her neighbors. She helped Fenris learn to read, even though he staunchly believed she belonged in a Circle.

She knew to be selfless and to care for the community. She knew how to compromise and consider the other sides’ feelings. She knew what was right and what was wrong. She was not the most skilled of the Hawke’s but she was the most heartfelt, the easiest to like, and enticed conversation. He called her Sunshine and she was; shining warmth from within the cold fissure that had become of her family. You could see it in her eyes. You could see it in her blush when it crept onto her pale cheeks. You could see it in her wry grin when she strutted the infamous Hawke dark humor. 

When Varric knocked on Hawke’s door the morning they were to depart for Crestwood, it was Bethany who answered. He found none of those qualities in the impassive amber eyes that looked down upon him. She no longer wore the uniform of a Circle mage. Hawke burned them when they sought refuge in the mountains after the fall of Kirkwall. Instead, she wore boots, old leathers, and a tattered dark purple tunic with a broad belt cinching her waist. Her red bandana was now worn on her head instead of around her neck, hiding the mark that had been branded into the center of her forehead. Her black tousled hair had been cut to chin length and a shallow scar caused a hiccup of separation in her right eyebrow. She was beautiful Bethany Hawke in her appearance but nothing more. What made her their Sunshine, his Sunshine, was gone.

The sun loomed lazily over the craggy mountain peaks and gleamed unperturbed by clouds this morning. The air was crisp and the smokiness of burning wood could be tasted on the tongue. Skyhold had been bustling since dawn this day. Workers, messengers, scouts, and guardsmen buzzed through the keep in preparation for the Inquisitor’s departure. The enticing smell of baked bread was beginning to roll forth from the kitchens, beckoning the fortress residences into the Herald’s Rest or the great hall for a spot of breakfast before they cleared off. None of this lightened Hawke’s brooding as he gazed out his window. Varric knew this would not be an easy journey for him. Arguments had volleyed back and forth as to whether Bethany could be brought with him to Crestwood. Regardless of Varric’s assurance that the people of Skyhold were trustworthy of her care, his friend would not relent. It was finally Bethany, who brought up the illogicality of bringing an infirm along with the entourage, that Hawke finally conceded.

“The last time Garrett left me was when he went to the Deep Roads. He believes if he leaves me again, something terrible will befall me.” Bethany remarked coolly detached as she finished readying Hawke’s travel pack. Her brother wordlessly stilled her working hands with his own and took over the task, all the while refusing to look at Varric.

“Sister Nightingale will keep a special eye out for you, Bethany.” Varric’s remark was less for her sake and more for her brother’s.

“As long as I have a purpose, I shall be content.”

“I believe she mentioned having you teach reading and writing to the soldiers. Would you like that?” asked Varric.

Hawke threw his pack over his broad shoulder and approached his sister.

“To like is to enjoy which is inconsequential. It is a sufficient use of my skill, nothing more.” Her brother paused at her words and seemed to debate on the manner of which he should say his farewell. As she looked upon him, a placid smile pulled on her lips. A feature many Tranquil plastered on their faces for the sake of the people around them, but it did little to soothe. Hawke’s face tightened and he clenched his fist before turning on his heel and walking out the door without an adieu.

“See you around, Sunshine.” Varric bid fondly.

“Goodbye, Varric. I will find it favorable for you and Garrett to return.”

Hawke was waiting for him on the ramparts, his countenance dark and his stance rigid. He closed his eyes as the mountain wind rustled his hair and beard.

“Are you alright?” Varric questioned as they walked together. His friend snorted in response.

“It’s a joke really. She won’t even care if I never make it back to her.” Hawk spoke in a rumbling tone. “My father only asked one thing of me… and I have felt the weight of it on my shoulders since I was a boy. Bethany is the only one left for me to uphold my promise to… and she’s no longer even our father’s daughter.” His laugh was cynical and empty.

There was little he could say to console his friend. Varric knew the deaths of Hawke’s family members rested darkly in his friend's heart and the guilt the younger man felt would not relent. He would never say it to Hawke, but Varric believed his friend's father to be cruel and cursed his young son’s soul before he could depart from the mortal world.

“She is lucky to have people who care about her. Few Tranquil could boast that, not that they would because… you know. Look at the silver linings, Killer. At least when you act like a churlish bastard, she doesn’t roll her eyes at you anymore.”

“Do not jest, V. You’re simply pleased to have a pair of ears listen to you ramble about yourself for hours on end.” Hawke jabbed back.

His friend suddenly halted in his stride and his eyes flashed like deadly steel. Varric followed his line of vision across the ramparts to Commander Cullen’s tower, who just so happened to stride out with Inquisitor Adaar. The bright blonde soldier faltered in his steps as the eyes of the two men collided. Varric’s breath caught in his throat and before he could say, “Hawke, no!” 

“KNIGHT-CAPTAIN!” Hawke’s voice boomed in the courtyard.

Messengers and workers paused in their conversations to look upon the Champion. Cullen scoffed and attempted to lead the perplexed Adaar to the stone stairwell. 

“It appears time only cradles cowardice.” Hawke taunted as strode towards the tower. Varric hustled after him. He cursed and appealed to his friend, but Hawke would hear none of it. The Commander went rigid halfway down the stone steps. He turned his head and gazed over his dark-feathered pauldron. Varric could hear the proverbial giant lump of shit whistling by as it headed towards the fan.

“What did you say?” Cullen whispered across the quietness of the ramparts. Everyone by now had turned to watch, from the messenger boys and girls to Inquisitor Adaar. The hushed air was punctured by the CAW of a raven from the rookery above. One could feel the heaviness and electricity in the air.

Hawke stalked towards the Commander who, in turn, took slow steps to the upper rampart to meet him. “‘Maker watch over you, Hawke.’ You use to say to me.” The Champion snarled phlegm up from the back of his throat before spitting a large gob onto Cullen’s polished boot. 

“Oh, shit.” Varric groaned into his gloved hand.

The Commander gazed at his boot with a wrinkled nose before his eyes met Hawke’s in defiance.

“You heard what I said, as you heard it that day in the Gallows.”

Cullen pursed his lips, “As I told you before, I will declare it again: I had no hand in what happened to your sister.” He expressed with great restraint.

“No hand?” Hawke laughed mockingly and stroked his beard with his free hand. “You were the one who took her away to the Circle. Even still, I made up excuses for you in my head. You were just following orders after all. But those excuses vanished that day in the Gallows when they allowed me to see what they done to her. Do you remember that day, Knight-Captain?”

By the look in Cullen’s eye any person could tell he did.

“I called you a coward because I finally realized how much worse you were than Meredith. She was so mad with her zealous ideology she could not even see her own evil, but you… You saw the wrongness but did nothing to stop it. Just following orders you were indeed, but how much blood has been spilled in this world by good men following bad orders? You were a weak man and your weakness devastated lives. My sister’s amongst them.” Hawke accused with a pointed finger.

Cullen’s eyes were alight with pain and anger. His nostrils flared as he reflexively gripped the pommel of his sword, but Hawke was undeterred as he took another step towards Cullen, their boots toe to toe. Without realizing it, Varric had grabbed Bianca and watched anxiously as the two men gazed at one another with animosity.

“You stole my sister from her family and then you stood by as your brethren robbed her of her life. Grip that sword tightly, Knight-Captain. Grip it tight til the very end. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Adaar took this as the cue to intercede as she jogged up the stairs to the two men.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” She purred. “It is a beautiful day, why drench it with old blood? A full belly and a pint before we leave can remedy this sourness, I’m sure of it.” She spoke playfully but as the bottom of her staff came down, sparks shot ominously from its tip. Commander Cullen blinked and remembered himself. He blew out a long breath and swallowed a tight lump in his throat. 

“I know what you want from me, Hawke, and one day you and I will face one another like men of honor and play out our fate, but it is not this day. Corypheus must be stopped, until then…” The hand that held the pommel of his sword outstretched itself to Hawke. The brown haired man stared down darkly at the offer of peace.

“I remember something my father once told me about changed men…” Hawke strode pass Cullen, making sure to jut his shoulder into Cullen’s paldrons as he walked on. “We may be able to change who we are but we can never erase what we have done!” He spat as he marched down the stairway pass Adaar.

Cullen’s face looked as though it was sculpted from stone as his open gloved hand squeaked shut before dropping to his side. Varric could only offer a sympathetic look as he returned Bianca to her holster. The Commander turned on his heel, his dark cape billowing as he went to retreat back into his tower. Varric joined Adaar at the top of the stairs. Her burning red eyes traced Hawke from the bottom of the lower courtyard to the gate.

“I’d say your friend is getting along like diarrhea in a teacup.” She commented dryly as she placed her staff in its holster. Varric gave a great sigh as he rested an elbow against the stone wall.

“That cup of diarrhea is the best person I know.” He explained.

“Do you… not know many people?” Adaar cracked him a smile before nudging him playfully. She left Varric as he gave her a half-spirited chuckle. Once she descended the staircase, he shook his head ruefully at the tower that housed Bethany Hawke before following in his leader’s footsteps.

+++++++++++++++

“I spy…”

“No.”

The Seeker stared sharply at him from her chestnut mount.

“But…”

“No.” She punctuated her resolution.

Varric grunted, “Well you should be good at finding things. Of course, you… couldn't find Hawke.”

The Iron Bull rewarded him with a blusterous laugh that caused the Seeker’s face to pinch in annoyance. The Inquisitor smoothed over the interaction by taking up a bawdy tavern song, which the Iron Bull happily joined in on. The Seeker dug her heels into her mount and created distance between herself and Varric.

“Do not mind him, Seeker!” Hawke called after the shorthaired woman. “He has a chronic illness called ‘Little Brother-itus’. It makes him distressingly annoying!” The Seeker looked over her shoulder at the two men before snapping her head forward, too late in her attempt to hide the smile that cracked her lips. Hawke winked at his friend and received a dramatic eye roll.

The journey to Crestwood had been unremarkable thus far. The Imperial Highway led them north and bent around Lake Calenhad. There were a few travelers and merchants. Most were heading south towards Redcliffe or west towards Jader. Word of mouth was saying that the coastlands of Ferelden were troubled. Some spoke of bandits; some spoke of red templars; some spoke of darkspawn; and, even more unpleasant, some spoke of the undead. A rotting corpse was one of the worst things to fight against. They weren’t disturbed by pain and they would need to be reduced to puddles of flesh and bone to deactivate their animation. The smell was always… horrible.

Even with the threat of something ominous waiting for them, Varric had to admit that it felt good to travel with Hawke again. They had followed one another to the abyss and back again in their time together. To be without him in the Inquisition certainly felt amiss. 

“Inquisitor, to the right.” Hawke nodded to the tree line.

The singing died off at the sight of the black smoke billowing over the treetops. The group was quiet as they steadily moved around the bend of the road to reveal a hamlet, or what was left of it.

“The veil is thin here.” Adaar announced gravely as she dismounted from her horse. The others followed and trailed her as they surveyed the area.

The shacks were ashen with some still burning. The air was sharp with the scent of death and burnt flesh. Bodies were littered about, freshly dead, no more than a few hours time. Hawke stood in front of a collapsed hut before retrieving an item from the ground. A doll.

“There is no evidence of magic here… Men and women with swords did this.” He spoke hoarsely as Varric stepped behind him. 

“Inquisitor!”

They turned to find the source of the cry. The Seeker kneeled in the grass beside a body. A trail of blood on the ground gave evidence to the woman’s recent crawling. Adaar bolted for her and dropped to her knees so that she may turn the woman over. The elderly elven woman shuddered and her bloodied hands went to clutch her abdomen where she was run through. She was dying.

“Shh. Please, be still. Let me heal you.”

Her pale gray lips struggled to get her words out, “M-My granddaughter… I told her to run. Please.” Her eyes were large, like most of her kind, and they stared only at Adaar.

“Who did this to you and your home?” The Seeker questioned.

The woman’s body trembled in visceral pain. She struggled to remain in the mortal world as fear and panic caused her to grab desperately at Adaar, who could only gaze down on her with pity.

“They took them. They… took-” A sigh escaped her opened lips as her blue eyes slid away and stared emptily at the sky. Adaar brushed the woman’s cheek with the back of her fingers before standing. 

“Search the houses and surrounding area for any survivors.” Came her somber order.

But there were none alive. The hamlet was littered with its dead occupants, but they were either men or the elderly. The children were missing, as were youthful women. The Seeker and the Iron Bull stood over a patch of grass, inspecting peculiar tracks as the rest of the group hauled the bodies to the center of the hamlet.

“The ground here is heavily trodden. They were bringing people here from their homes. There are clear wheel and hoof marks.”

“So the kids and women were loaded into a cart and hauled away.” Bull surmised.

“Why just women and children? Wouldn’t slave traders be interested in strong men?” The Inquisitor questioned as she rubbed her dirty hands off on her coat.

“Maybe for sex. Maybe for something else. They made sure to collect people who were young and strong, but not too strong that they could fight back.”

The Iron Bull’s words hung in the air.

“Let’s hope Crestwood isn’t as cheery.” Hawke remarked with a mirthless face.

“Inquisitor, with talks of the undead it would be wise if we burn the bodies.” The Seeker softly recommended.

The others agreed. Adaar nodded mutely before the group went to stand before the pile of bodies. Varric cleared his throat,

“Maybe some prayers for the dead before putting them to rest?”

Hawke notably clicked his tongue in annoyance and muttered something about _warped Chantry dogma_ as the Seeker bowed her head in respect to the fallen.

“Oh Maker, seat these people by Your side in death. Make them one within Your glory and let the world once more see Your favor. For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.” Her thick accent rolled through the words like a sweet honey and the entourage took a moment of silence for the dead.

Adaar raised her hands and flames devoured the bodies. Hawke stepped forward and pitched the crudely made doll into the blaze before turning his back on the pyre. All they could do was retrieve their mounts and leave the hamlet behind them. That night they established camp just beyond the neck of the river that fed into Lake Calenhad. The camp was quiet and dark purple clouds choked the sky of its starlight. Rain rolled through and beckoned the entourage to their tents. The Iron Bull volunteered to keep watch and stared dutifully into the deep, silent dark. 

In the middle of the night, Varric awoke with a gasp. He had no dreams to speak of, thus no nightmares to claim, but when his eyes sprang open from deep slumber he felt panic. Rain and wind assaulted the tent in a heavy onslaught, causing its aggressive melody to drown out his labored breathing. His shirt clung to his sweaty chest and he could feel his heart thumping in his ears. His eyes darted around the dark tent, thinking of the burning doll, when they met the glistening, sharp gaze of the Seeker’s. Her eyes were open and alert, as she lay curled in her cot. He felt her eyes watching him as he swallowed and lowered himself back to his pillow with his hand resting on his fluttering chest.

“The kids…” His deep voice whispered up to the ceiling. A gentle hand reached out and he felt warm fingers touch his forearm.

“It will be alright, Varric.” He heard her low tone trickle through the dark as he was once more beckoned to the twilight of sleep.

The morning revealed to them no sunshine and the sky continued its downpour. While he fed his mount he could hear the Seeker accusing the Iron Bull, who appeared unworried, of eating more of the rations during the night. As they moved on from the camp, the earth became sodden and marshy. All day the sun evaded them and try as Varric might with humorous complaints and stories, the mood of the entourage appeared dampened as well. It was difficult to blame them. They had not traversed such a drenched hellhole landscape since the Fallow Mire.

The lands of Crestwood were tucked just on the border of Fereldon’s Bannorn. It was dark when Harding met them and led them to camp. As they filled their bellies with warm stew beneath a canopy, they watched the rip in the Fade churn the dark waters of the lake below the hill. It was reported the undead were rising from the waters and plaguing the town as well as bandits terrorizing the roads through the lands.

“Have the bandits taken any women or children from Crestwood?”

Scout Harding stared curiously at Adaar as Cassandra wove the qunari’s dark hair into a thick braid, “I can’t say I’ve seen that. They’re just run of the mill thugs choking out any merchants from traveling into Crestwood.”

The Inquisitor drummed her fingers along her staff, “Then in the morning we should bid them a hello.”


	3. Of Hawks and Mice

The red banner of the Inquisition billowed in the wind and rain above the fortress of Caer Bronach. The bandits that held the stronghold as a base worked beneath the moniker the Highwaymen. For the past two months they swarmed upon Ferelden and Orlesian traders alike. They had food, they had booze, and they had weapons, but they also had become arrogant and blind to the idea of being ripped out like withered trees from their roots. They fell piteously to the Iron Bull’s great axe, Varric’s fire arrows, Hawke’s poisoned blades, the Seeker’s imposing fortitude and expert sword, and Inquisitor Adaar’s terrifying magic.

All fell, without so much as a remarkable duel, except the chief. The grizzled, towering warrior was impervious in his rampage and he was wearing down his foes. A widely arched swing of his maul collided with the Iron Bull’s shoulder, flinging the one-eyed warrior across the stones until he skidded to a halt and remained unmoving. Adaar let loose a bloodcurdling scream of wrath before the air above the chief cracked and boomed. Varric knew to hit the deck when green magic surged forth and the wind whistled a terrible howl as the Veil was torn. Only Hawke stood and watched transfixed in horror, as the Highwayman chief bawled and shrieked as the rift ripped the flesh from his bones until his entire body collapsed and disintegrated.

Hawke stood beneath the Inquisition banner, glowering up at the sigil of the Watchful Eye as lightning fractured the blackened sky. The Inquisition’s forces had moved from their camp and occupied Caer Bronach in full. The Iron Bull had been healed and rested by the fire in company with Varric, whose ink-stained fingers cleaned and oiled Bianca’s parts with dedicated attention. Adaar, still in full face battle Vitaar, had gone off to speak with agent Charter in private. Hawke wandered back over to the men beneath the canopy before allowing his body to come down hard on the bench beside the Iron Bull. Varric’s eyes flickered up to observe his friend as his laced fingers came to rest just beneath his nose. Hawke had been exposed to an array of different magics over the years, but it had been the first time he witnessed the raw magic that belonged only to the Inquisitor. From the grim expression on his face, Varric did not need to guess how he felt about it. 

“She only uses the rifts as a last resort when battling non-spirits.” Varric offered up as his eyes returned to Bianca. He held her up and tested out the scope, “It’s a terrible way to die and she knows that.”

Hawke breathed out heavily with fatigue before ruffling his hair, causing droplets of water to fly in every which direction. The Iron Bull, who was uneasy around magic as many Qunari were, seemed to share the same apprehension about the use of Rift magic. But the horned mercenary was wise in the ways of keeping his thoughts to himself.

“They were common thieves and killers.” Hawke grumbled in a criticizing tone before accepting the Iron Bull’s silent offer of a flask. “I suppose they did not deserve to die kindly or quietly.”

Varric couldn’t contain the laughter that rumbled forth. The hypocrisy was far too enticing to let slip on by. “ _Hawke_ , we use to kill gang members for fun and loot their bodies. Your favorite thing to do was steal their boots while they were still dying.”

Hawke’s dark eyes glinted at him over the fire. The brooding gave way to amusement as his lips twisted to the side in an effort to hide his grin.

“Yes, but we were not _common_.” He rectified with a drawl as he passed the flask back to the Iron Bull. The men shared a laugh even with the Iron Bull clamping a hand down on his side to support his bruised ribs. The Qunari started on a story of the Charger’s being requested to scare the rival of a noble, but not with blades; not with intimidation; but with a suit of _feathers_. Varric guffawed and continued to listen to the tale as he retrieved a wine skin to replace the flask they had emptied. A fortuneteller had told the rival that his death would come ‘on feathered wings’. Unanimously, Rocky was voted for the task and cantankerously accepted the plan to be doused in honey and feathers. Instead of a tactful scheme, Bull opted for grabbing his dwarven friend without so much an explanation and throwing him through the parlor window of the rival noble. It worked, kind of. The noble was so startled at the havoc that just interrupted his dinner party that he choked on a chicken bone and died.

The end of the story rippled a riotous laughter through the trio. Hawke was smiling, revealing his chipped front tooth that could only be seen when he was too lively to consider hiding. Their laughter caught the attention of the Seeker who was across the open area of the keep, sharpening her sword in an alcove lit up with a torch. Her eyes met Hawke’s and at the sight of his rare smile, color rose in her cold cheeks. Varric could not help but gape incredulously at the blush. 

He had seen that color on those sharp cheeks before, mostly in her anger or indignation over something he had said. But this was the first time he saw Cassandra Aleggra Patricia Caligieri Filoment Pentaghast blushing because of a man. She quickly looked away and began to work on her metal with newfound diligence. The timid gesture brought upon air of girlishness that seemed nearly ludicrous to him. It amused and disturbed him to such an extent he wasn’t sure if he enjoyed the sight or not. It was then that Varric noticed his friend’s lingering stare.

“Now I know you’re a glutton for punishment if you try to pursue that.” He spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he readjusted Bianca’s resting position between his legs.

Hawke’s eyes slid over to Varric and something mischievous glinted there. Something Varric would only see in his eyes when he was watching Isabela beat the piss out of some poor soul. The dwarf didn’t like it one bit. His friend shrugged and took a long drought from the wine skin before passing it to Bull.

“There’s something about a woman who looks like she could kill you just as good as fuck you.” He asserted before his appreciative gaze returned to the shorthaired woman.

“I have to agree there. Battle hardened women are wild in the sheets.” Concurred Bull. 

“Now that explains a lot.” Varric’s revelation was punctuated with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

Some men like gentle-hearted maidens, damsels in distress, and cheerful lasses. Hawke had a penchant for violent vixens with blood on their boots and a drink in their hand, much like himself. It was no wonder he and Isabela fell hard for one another. From the sidelines, it was like reading a romantic tragedy. Their relationship was steeped with their cynicism, aloofness, scorn, the scars in their hearts, and their surprising capability to hold deep and strong affection. Whatever material Hawke had been crafted from, Isabela had been made from the same.

While the Seekers of Truth hauled off Varric for questioning, Aveline scrambled to organize the city guard to help bring order into Kirkwall, and Merrill scampered off to assist and lead the many destitute elves of the alienage. Hawke, Bethany, and Isabela continued to live in hiding within the mountains of the Free Marches. Something had happened. Something Hawke was reluctant to divulge, but led to him taking Bethany and leaving Isabela in the night. Now, the fearsome and sensual rogue was most certainly not one to be slighted or spurned. In fact, it was suspicious that hired men had not yet appeared to slit Hawke’s throat out of the Captain’s bloody revenge.

Without a whorehouse nearby, Hawke was obviously looking to ink his pen and the furtive glances he bestowed upon the Seeker made Varric bristle. The agitation caught him by surprise, but he rationalized that if Hawke slept with the Seeker and dashed away it would be Varric that would have to receive her righteous wrath. A wrath that he fell victim to often through his own actions. He didn’t need his friend’s cock doing it for him as well. 

“Perhaps if you stopped fingering the cold wood of your Bianca, you would know well enough.” Hawke jabbed.

Wine spurted out of Bull’s mouth as he proceeded to throw his head back in laughter. Varric did his part in playing the emotionally wounded character as he grimaced and placed a hand over his heart. Their banter continued on, passing wine and sharing stories, while mocking one another. At one point, Hawke howled and clapped as Varric recanted a story from the Bone Pit, wherein Hawke sent some pestering nobles who had been urging him to become Viscount. He could not help but feel a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with drink. There was a reason Hawke’s crew stuck around for nearly 10 years. The Champion had an unmistakable gravity. Formidable and disturbing he could be, but the long faced man was rowdy during the nights at the Hanged Man. He joked, he laughed, and he started brawls for fun. It was good to see the old Hawke shining beneath the crust that had built up from loss and betrayal. 

“Drinking without me, gentlemen?”

A fresh-faced Adaar ducked her head as she came under the canopy. Varric and Bull hollered encouragingly as the wine skin was offered. She held up a gloved hand to politely decline before reaching into her cloak to retrieve her own personal flask. Their leader had a penchant for collecting abandoned spirits, much to the perturbation of her advisors. A crusted, ancient bottle with skull and crossbones and a barely existing label that read _‘Dragon Piss’_? Yes, perfect. Drink it. What is the worst that could happen?

The tipsy Iron Bull did not bother hiding his affectionate stare as Adaar took the seat beside Varric.

“Tomorrow it should only take until the afternoon to seek out my contact. The sooner we return to Skyhold the better.” Hawke expressed eagerly.

Adaar took another sip from the flask before passing it to Varric.

“About that…” She whistled through her teeth to the Seeker, who quickly packed away her whetstone and sheathed her sword. “We just had a visit from the Crestwood mayor…” Adaar informed as the black-haired warrior ducked under the canopy to join them and took a seat beside Varric. “He’s beseeched me to assist the town. They are in dire straights with the onslaught of the undead. They are suffering from the lack of trade and he’s having trouble keeping his people from panicking.”

Hawke did not look pleased. His hand tightened around the wineskin that he was holding. It was obvious the man was eager to finish what they set out to do and return to his sister. Varric took a swig of Adaar’s flask and nearly coughed from the burning in his throat.

“How exactly does he expect us to close that rift? I sink like a druffalo in water, by the way. So swimming is out of the question.” He rasped before handing out the flask for the Seeker, who merely wrinkled her nose at him with distaste.

“Serrah, it would grieve me to put you in such a distressing yet probably hilarious state but you’re in luck. Down the way from here is an old tavern on the dam which apparently holds the controls for the water distribution.”

“So,” the Iron Bull paused to catch the flask that was thrown his way, “-we drain the lake, kick some demon ass, and close the rift.”

Adaar awarded him with a wink.

“Did the mayor know anything about the razed village?” The Seeker inquired.

“No. He appeared surprised but not… but not concerned as one should.” The Inquisitor said distractedly as she rubbed her palms together. “An elected official with a sweaty upper lip is never a good thing and I have a feeling he knows something. The fortress has been searched and neither a scrap of paper about the ransacked village has been found nor any receipts on slave trading. Something terrible happened to that place and its’ people. We should get to the bottom of it while we help Crestwood.” 

Hawke scoffed as he absently prodded the fire with a long stick.

“Something terrible happened there and something terrible is now occurring in Crestwood. All over Thedas villages and cities are being razed and people are being slaughtered by demons from the rifts.” He looked up at Adaar and held her gaze. “The Red Templars and Venatori will not wait. _Corypheus will not wait_. From what I’ve heard from my contact, he may have already infiltrated the Grey Wardens.” He spoke emphatically. “I believe we are wasting precious time that we do not have. The world is at stake, not just Crestwood.”

The two leaders gazed at one another from across the fire. Hawke was a man of iron-will and he was beginning to learn the Inquisitor could be as unyielding as he. The easy-going, camaraderie-encouraging personality melted away from Adaar and was replaced by the resolute and hardened disposition of the Inquisitor. She rested her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward unsmiling,

“I am the only one who can close the rifts. Yes, many are suffering but we are here and we will help the suffering that is occurring here. You may do as you wish as an individual, Hawke, but the Inquisition will lend its resources to Crestwood for as long as we occupy their lands. I cannot turn my back on people in pain. Can you, Champion?”

Hawke looked away to blink at the fire, his eyes distant. But Varric knew what Hawke saw. Kirkwall stood behind the flames dancing in reflection of those dark eyes. Just as it always does, the memory of the burning city rested like a stone in Varric’s stomach. The Champion’s pause was punctuated by a wave of thunder that echoed against the nearby body of water.

“At one point, I convinced myself that perhaps one person could make a difference… but I was wrong.” His eyes lifted to meet Adaar’s once more. “Just as _you_ are wrong.”

Adaar reacted with a half-grin but it was cheerless. She leaned back and crossed her arms,

“Aye? In what way?” She chose to indulge him.

The air was tense as Hawke looked back into the fire. He seemed neither smug nor eager to battle words with the Inquisitor. He was dejected as he prodded the fire forcefully, causing a deteriorating log to collapse into the embers.

“One day, the suffering and aggravation you seek to soothe in your people will permeate into your skin and bones. You wish to right the wrongs of the world, I can understand, but eventually pain and anger distorts us. It shapes us into what we hate. A man once said to me, _‘If you battle with monsters, you become a monster.’_ I laughed at him when he told me that…” 

“It is not the fate of all who wish to right the world, Champion.” The Seeker reasoned. The ghostly look he cast her caused her back to straighten.

“Not all,” he conceded “-but many, given enough time. Desire and desperation to create change make people turn to extreme measures. They justify their actions and live in denial that their desperation has turned them into the monsters they battle… and so they succumb to the great nightmare. It plagues me every night, you see.”

“What does?” The Seeker bade him to continue.

Hawke paused to take a drink from the wineskin.

“If I’ve become the monster yet.” The confession made a shiver run down Varric’s spine. The failures of Kirkwall nipped tirelessly at Hawke. It was only in these moments that Varric saw how worn his friend’s soul had become. It caused him a great deal of concern.

“You are wrong, Inquisitor, because if you continue to believe as you do… The world will break you and there will be naught left but murderous anger. If not careful, this Inquisition, with the power it wields, will start making the same choices as people of the past. In the end, they all become monsters too.”

Hawke’s words caused the sharpness of Adaar’s gaze to flake as they rested uneasily upon her. 

“Insightful, but dramatically dark, Hawke. How very _you_.” Varric jested in an attempt to alleviate the mood. His friend was gifted in effectively extinguishing fun, but Varric was well practiced in salvaging these moods. 

“Alright, alright. Enough with this bullshit.” The Iron Bull expressed with a wave of his hand. “This rainy place is depressing as it is without having to think about morality. Varric, do you have any cards on you?”

“That depends, Tiny. Do you have any coin on you?”

Hawke dropped the wineskin to the ground as he stood and departed, stiff legged, from the canopy without another word. Varric watched him go with a look of regret, but he knew to let his friend be for the remainder of the night. A twinge of irritation arose as he caught the Seeker watching the retreating form of the Champion. As she turned back around and her hazel eyes met his, he lifted a thick brow at her before pointedly not dealing her into the card game. The woman scowled before marching out into the dark.

+++++++++++++++++++++

When he stumbled to bed that night, he was relieved to see his tent mate was all ready asleep. The Seeker lay sprawled on her cot with her arm draped over her eyes. Quietly, he placed Bianca at his bedside before he squeezed out his wet hair. The remainder of the night had been spent drinking and playing cards. He was sporting extra jingling in his coin purse thanks to the Iron Bull’s sloppy, intoxicated strategies and Adaar’s, well, her overall lack of dedication to win at all. 

As soon as Varric’s head hit the pillow, he felt the earth tilt and his stomach coiled with nausea. He groaned and sat up on his elbows to allow the dizziness to abate. He allowed himself to drink just a bit too much tonight. Scratching at his stubble before gripping his forehead, he sent out a silent curse to Adaar and her Maker-damned _‘Dragon Piss’_.

The soft breathing of the Seeker caused his eyes to trail over to her. The lewd comments Hawke and Bull made earlier in the night bubbled to the surface of his mind. Sure, she had a nice face. He would have to be blind and dumb to say otherwise. It was a face he knew well and though it tended to be nicked, bruised, and scarred, it still had enticing and feminine features. But it was the face that interrogated him in Kirkwall; the face that told him he needed to leave to meet the Divine without so much as a goodbye to his friends; the face that told him he was a liar, a cheat, and unworthy of trust. It was also the face that saw him in the dark and whispered comforting words so that he may sleep…

Varric blinked and felt something stir uncomfortably in his chest at the memory. Her animal skin blanket had bunched at the waist. The blue tunic she wore revealed a slice of bare, olive toned skin across her stomach. His gaze swept upward to appreciate the slope of her breasts and felt a knot form in the back of his throat. He had to concede that she had more going on than a pretty face. He had never bothered to think what kind of woman she would be in bed. A cringe adorned his face as he imagined any man who tried to find out would be skewered on her sword. Bull said warrior women were wild in the sheets, but from how the Seeker shied away simply from a smile, Varric had a hard time believing it. Maker, he still could not believe Hawke was able to get that reaction out of her.

“Varric, you’re mouth breathing like an ogre. Go to sleep.” His muscles froze like a cat caught in the larder at the sound of her sudden voice. They unwound as her words sank in and he fell back against his pillow in a huff. The opportunity to torment her was too difficult to pass by, even if he were sober.

“Did my old dwarven eyes deceive me tonight,” his voice was raspy from drink and drowsiness. “-or did I see Princess Seeker blush because of the smile of a dashing rogue?” He taunted from across the darkness.

“I did no such thing.” The woman rejected with a fatigued grumble. 

“Oh, but you did. Please tell me you’re smitten. Is such a meek trait even permissible as a member of a righteous and high-minded order as that of the Seekers?”

“Do not test me, dwarf.” She bit tersely. “Go to sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow and I will need my energy to withstand your histrionic jabber all day long.”

“You’re right. I need my beauty sleep so I can look good while doing it too.”

Silence hummed within the tent. In his soggy mind, Varric felt the cot tilt back and forth, not so nauseating as before, as his breathing deepened with sleep creeping close.

“He is… different than how he is portrayed in your book.” The Seeker’s voice pulled him away from the tantalizing fog. 

“I wouldn’t say _different_ ,” He paused to clear his throat, “-but perhaps I did exercise some creator’s authority and made him a smidge more grandiose, impeccable with timing, and perhaps a smidge dumber so a certain charismatic and intriguing dwarf could shine from the sidelines.”

The Seeker rolled on to her stomach and hugged her pillow.

“His courage is not fiction. It was in fact one of the traits that drew me into the book. I found myself envious of a person who could stand so decisively, to show no hesitancy, and to follow their conscious without looking back.”

Varric rolled his eyes, which he realized was a bad idea too late. He groaned as he clenched at his temples. “Yeah, can’t even express how much that courage made us have to lick the spoon from the shit pot Hawke would always stir.”

“To be that brave is inspiring.”

He felt it tickle in his chest and he tried to keep his lips sealed shut, but the laugh betrayed him by scratching up his throat and behind his nose. He tried turning his head into the pillow to muffle the sound. The Seeker pushed herself up by the elbows to cast a stare sharp with mortification and offense.

“A-Are you laughing at me? _Ugh_! How is that humorous?!” 

“Because I honestly don’t get it.” Varric allowed the crook of his arm to cover his eyes as he prepared for sleep. “You’re a woman who lives by her own terms. If a dragon bellows at you, you bellow back. You stare down Orlesian nobles like they’re horseflies. You’re probably one of the bravest women I’ve met but for some reason you think Hawke has some nuts and bolts jumbling around that you lack. You brave types… so much self-deprecation.”

Nothing else was hissed in the darkness and soon the pattering of rain held him gently as he drifted into sleep.

++++++++++++

The untroubled black void of Varric’s slumber began to wane as the first tickling of reality came through. He was terribly conscious of his full bladder but his lethargy persuaded him to roll on his side. He knew he could only resist the call to nature for a bit longer, but the temptation to cling to a few extra delicious moments of rest was too strong. Sounds here and there began to permeate the fog of his stupor as he became aware of the calls of morning birds and the light drizzle of rain against the tarp of their tent. He could also hear the gentle rhythm of the Seeker’s breathing from her cot behind him. In front of him, he could hear the soft whirring of Bianca’s mechanical gears as she-

Varric’s lids flew open and there in front of him, frozen in a crouched position, was a hooded child. Its wide blue eyes stared frightfully at Varric as it removed its dirty fingers from Bianca’s buttons. But it was too late. Well acquainted with her sounds, Varric knew which button had been pressed as the gears sprang into action.

“FUC-“

With a _BANG_ , Bianca released her smokescreen bomb. Rather nimbly for a blinded dwarf, Varric had rolled off the cot and grabbed his beloved crossbow. The rich singing of steel indicated that the Seeker had awoken with the commotion and drew her sword. Together, they stumbled out coughing and none too pleased to be greeted by a soft mist of rain.

“HEY!” Varric’s voice boomed across the courtyard as he caught sight of the scurrying form searching for an exit.

At this point, the disturbance had garnered the attention of a soldier who had been tending to the morning coffee at the fire as well as Scout Harding who had been reading maps beneath her canopy. The child was chased until cornered. Backed against a wall, the child slipped a small dagger from its cloak, brandishing it with a shaking hand.

“Calm down.” The Seeker’s even voice caused the blue eyes to fall on her, though it did not relent pointing its weapon threateningly at the soldier who had been closing in.

“Back up. Lower your weapon. It is a child, after all.” The black haired warrior commanded as she sheathed her own sword.

In a grand show of deftness, Charter slithered down a rope from the upper ramparts and landed behind the child. It squealed in fright as she expertly twisted the hand that held the dagger. The Seeker and Harding were noticeably disturbed as Charter made the child jerk its own dagger toward its throat.

“There are children all over the continent being used as pawns in silent wars. Most especially in Orlais.” Charter hissed. “So, little bird, sing for me and tell me who paid you.”

Varric knew her to be right. Even in Kirkwall, some of the most beneficial intel he attained given was by children. No one ever paid them any mind and they could get into places where most adults could not. From what he knew about Orlais, children being raised as Bards were taught the arts of manipulation, subterfuge, combat, and murder. Some no older than the one before him. 

But if this thing was a spy, then he was a Viscount. Its tattered trousers and cloak were soaked and caked with mud. The tunic underneath was tucked into the trousers and appeared lumpy and laden with… something. Varric shouldered Bianca as he approached the child. He was close enough to hear its quivering breath and as he prodded its misshapen stomach, it flinched. With a quick jerk of his hand, he pulled the tunic loose from the pants and a small hoard of bread, fruit, cheese, and dried meat fell to the ground. Charter loosened her grip on the hand as she watched an apple roll and stop at the Seeker’s boot. The guard scoffed before walking away to tend to the coffee before it burned.

“That’s kind of impressive.” Harding remarked while rubbing the back of her neck.

“Agent Charter, I think it’s safe to say you have yourself a rat or a mouse instead of mole.” Varric drawled with a smirk.

Charter ripped back the dirty hood of her captive to reveal a mass of curly, black hair. Now seen clearly, the child was clearly a girl around the years 5 to 7. Wide-eyed and glassy, the blue hues stared up at him. She was considerably pale, even her mouth which was clamped in a firm line.

“Enough.”

All turned in recognition of the moored voice of their leader. Adaar stood with the Iron Bull, haphazardly dressed in their scurry to respond to the situation. Bull was still tightening his belt when his eye fell upon the child and the cache of food surrounding her.

“Trying to sneak into a fort? You got greedy, kid.” The Iron Bull remarked with his deep voice well oiled with amusement. “If you just waited another day I would have been able to give you more food. But I have to hand it to you, this was ballsy.”

“ _That’s_ where our rations went? You lied!” The Seeker barked the accusation.

The Iron Bull was unconcerned as he crossed his arms against his expansive naked chest. “No, you accused me and I just shrugged. There’s a difference.” Was his cheeky explanation. The Seeker visibly fumed.

“Alright, alright.” Adaar waved her hand at Charter. “Release her. There’s no harm done. She’s just a hungry kid from Crestwood.”

Charter released the girl, taking the dagger with her. Her gaze was sharp and dangerous as she rounded to join the adults. The child stood immobile and stiff.

“She’s not from Crestwood.” Iron Bull informed with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Varric questioned.

“The burning hamlet.” The Seeker concluded, her previous irritation extinguished to give way to curiosity.

He looked back at the child. Slowly, he reached a hand towards the girl whose only movement was her trembling limbs and the wide eyes that trailed his hand. With two fingers, he gently lifted her dark locks of hair to reveal a small pointed ear. 

“The old woman spoke of her granddaughter… That’s where you lived, wasn’t it?” He attempted to use a soothing voice to coax the girl but she would not answer. She continued to tremble, only now she maintained a steady gaze at her feet.

“Leave her be for now. We need to get a move on the rift in Old Crestwood. Harding, have someone clean her up and get her fed. Let’s round up-“ Adaar stopped short, swiveling her head about in search of something.

It was then that Varric realized Hawke had not been roused like the rest of them. He darted for his tent, in hopes of finding him hung over and groggy. Instead, there was a note left in his familiar, nearly illegible chicken scratch along with a crude map of Crestwood. Next to the village was a cave adorned with a large X.

_Need to get to the contact before the other Wardens find him  
Meet here when finished with the rift_


End file.
